advil and apple juice
by kuchee
Summary: Ever since the time that Kyle almost died from kidney failure when they were eight, Stan promised himself one thing: he'd always look after Kyle. Style, sickfic.


Ever since the time that Kyle almost died from kidney failure when they were eight, Stan promised himself one thing: he'd always look after Kyle. Keep him healthy, despite how increasingly insurmountable that task seemed as the years passed. Kyle had a knack for illness and injury that was almost impressive. Back then, it was more serious, of course - in the grasp whatever batshit group hallucination that seemed to periodically take over that town, Stan soon realised holistic medicine was only the first of his worries.

Kyle is still prone to disease and disaster, but more of the normal kind now, like getting sick with a 103-degree fever every few months. So, not _normal,_ really, but predictable at least. And Stan thinks of it as a weird kind of duty for him - if Kyle had the ability to shake reason into him whenever he got into a funk or started to harbour grandiose ideas, it was only reasonable for Stan to return the gesture in his own (slightly kinder) way.

Now he thanks whatever God that still exists in this universe that he doesn't have to worry about anything anywhere near as awful as Cartman-induced hemorrhoids. Even so, when he's scrambling at the nightstand and digging out a juicebox, Stan still can't help feeling a little bit heroic and a little bit ridiculous. This is a constant of their relationship, no matter what else about it changes.

They're in the new apartment (well, Kyle's apartment, Stan's doing groceries and gas for now, but he's working on it). It's so new - the apartment and the relationship - and mostly, having their own fucking space to do whatever they want, that 'dick party' is something that sounds awesome in theory. It is in practice too, for the most part, but when Kyle kind of stops mid-thrust, mumbling about being too sweaty, he knows something else is the matter. Stan hasn't even finished saying, "You wanna change position?" when Kyle's balance wavers, and his hands that were clawing into Stan's hips moments ago loosen and tremble and slip. Kyle half-tumbles into Stan's chest before rolling over, pointing a weak arm towards the nightstand with his eyes squeezed shut in a grimace.

Stan is alert and on it, instantly. He digs out the yellow box of off-brand apple juice that has been a staple of Kyle's whole life, stabs the straw through, and hands it to Kyle. He totally wants to fuck the life out of Kyle, but not this literally.

Stan is familiar with the process - he kept granola bars and candy in his backpack all the way through high school, after the first genuine scare one summer, when they had taken the rare opportunity of a warm pond and gone swimming for hours, and Kyle had almost blacked out on the way home, with nothing on him. Stan will never forget the anger he felt later that day at Kyle's callous disregard for his condition, but more importantly, the dread. So he's prepared for situations just like this. Well, not _just _like this - switching his brain on mere moments from getting fucked stupid is more than a little bit disorienting, but he's always made sure that can spot these symptoms just as well as Kyle can.

Kyle takes two long slurps of juice, crumpling the box near empty in his sweaty, lubey, hands, before gasping and closing his eyes. His chest is dripping with sweat; a sight that's weird to Stan only in how quick it went from super hot to extremely worrying. Kyle puts the box down weakly and laughs the kind of relief only someone with the knowledge that they've narrowly avoided a diabetic coma can.

"I told you not to get cocky," Stan says, referring to the competitive remarks they had exchanged on the topic of a dick marathon some hours earlier. Stan thinks he's won this round on principle, even though they didn't manage to get to his turn to pitch, so to speak.

He kind of wants to pull Kyle into his chest, aborted horniness be damned, but that's not going to get a good reaction in Kyle's sweaty state. Instead, he strokes Kyle's hand with gentle motions while he calms down, and wonders how they got here.

...

When Stan turns twelve, he gets a new-ish bike from his parents. New-ish because it was supposed to be for Shelly, until they both had simultaneous growth spurts over the span of a few weeks and his parents insisted they just stock it away for a few months because it was too late to return it. Stan doesn't mind, he thinks he's reaped the rewards while she was stuck with a last-minute gift card to some trashy clothing store for the same amount. The bike is kind of lame because of the baby blue colour, according to Kyle, but that doesn't stop him from riding shotgun on it almost every time Stan takes it out.

One day they're breezing through the street into the forested area behind their row of houses. The snow is thick at this time of year, and Stan doesn't know what his front wheel stumbles over as it catches abruptly and sends him skidding. They hurtle over some shrubbery and land next to a creek.

A brief scuffle of leaves behind him and he hears a yelp of "Stan?!"

It happens so quick that Stan doesn't register that his face is smashed into the ground until Kyle yanks him up by the back of his collar to a sitting position. The vigour of it makes him see stars.

He only figures out how bad it must be when he turns and watches the colour rush almost comically out of Kyle's face. "_Dude_, are you okay?" he practically shouts. Stan flinches.

He nods slowly, a movement that seems to alight every nerve in his head that decided to stop working from the impact. His nose is numb and his ears are tingling. Kyle hesitates before unwrapping his scarf and holding it to Stan's nose, a hand cupped over his to direct it into place. He pulls Stan up more gently by the elbow. Stan allows it, the dizziness rushing in his ears. His knees are scraped to hell, too; when he puts them to use by walking, the motion makes his eyes sting.

It feels like his face is on fire.

"Keep your head tilted back," Kyle warns. Stan is already aware, it's the only flimsy piece of advice he knows about nosebleeds, and it seems absolutely useless in the face of the immeasurable pain that hits him as they begin walking.

Kyle squeezes his hand, telling Stan something about coming back later to get the bike. The rising panic in Stan's chest compounds the worryingly loud pounding of his pulse in his head - what's his mom going to say? Is the bike really broken and will his dad kick up a fuss about it even though he got it on sale? Is it normal that the ground looks more blindingly white with each step he takes, until all he can do is pull up the bundle of scarf, matted with blood, to his shield his eyes, and let Kyle lead him back through the snow?

As they reach the main road, Stan stumbles over the kerb and pukes right on the spot. Kyle's voice is shaken. "We're almost there," he says. "You're gonna be okay, dude. It's just a nosebleed."

It definitely isn't, because Stan's pretty sure he can feel his skull rattle, or something crazy like that. Stan groans in reply, and then groans again in bitter embarrassment when he realises his face is slick not only with blood and mud but tears. Kyle doesn't say a word about it, continuing, "Remember when you got sick from being a vegetarian? That was way more embarrassing than this."

Stan cracks a smile. He would tell Kyle to _shut up, asshole, _if his mouth wasn't full of blood, a regurgitation of many conversations they've had right here. Kyle keeps holding his hand and starts up again, like they're only walking home from school, just a normal bus stop routine. "Come on," Kyle says.

When they're inside, his mom takes one glance at his face and asks him to get in the car. She doesn't sound annoyed at all, which is scarier. Kyle is entrusted with tissues and water on the way while she keeps glancing back at him in the backseat, eyes bright with worry. Stan is glad for it, because he can't quite remember how they got here or what happened, but Kyle was there, so he'll know.

Kyle keeps talking at him on his mom's orders, rambling on nonsense that Stan doesn't even really hear, but it keeps him awake nonetheless, if for nothing except his frantic pace and piercing tone. It kind of makes his headache worse, but he thinks maybe Kyle is good at looking after him, too. It's a comforting thought.

...

Stan has to get braces around the same time that Kyle has to get glasses. Oddly, Kyle seems much more tormented about his diagnosis, even though braces are just, way nerdier, that's just a fact; and anything that makes odd family members and adults cutely compare him to Shelly (like they're being _original_) should automatically be considered the worst, no questions asked.

And anyway, Kyle would look like a total dork with or without glasses; he's scrawny as shit, has the hair for it, and was the shortest in their class the last time they all had to check with the school nurse, so Stan doesn't understand what's the big difference anyway. Not that he'd ever tell Kyle that.

Kyle elbows him one afternoon and puts down his lunch tray next to Stan in the cafeteria. He eyes the empty space at Stan's elbows before digging into his dry bean burger. Just watching the action makes Stan's jaw hurt.

"You're not eating?" Kyle says sympathetically through a mouthful.

Stan shakes his head minutely from where it's slumped against his arm. He's not up for talking right now, not when his teeth feel like they're going to fall out from his head from the agonising way they're throbbing. He just came back from an appointment at the orthodontists' and the painkillers are slowly starting to wear off. Kyle nods in understanding.

Stan puts his head back down. He'll be able to make his way through final period English. They're only watching the terrifying film version of _Animal Farm_, anyway, now that they're done reading the book, and after school he'll try to sleep off some of the pain before starting on all the algebra homework he should have done last night instead of masturbating to Wendy's cryptic texts. For now, the cool nook of his arms provides some relief, until Cartman's voice pierces the buzz of the cafeteria chatter. Stan squeezes his eyes shut.

"You skipped Spanish _again, _Stan? I thought you hippies were all about that integr-" but his eyes fall on Kyle, and the words die on his lips. Stan clamps his arms further above his head, trying to tamp down his preemptive irritation, waiting for the impending assault on his already aching head. He's not going to be able to tolerate their shouting matches today.

"Oh, _Kyle_," comes Cartman simpering voice, laced with barely concealed glee. He sighs a sigh of resignation, and Stan can practically feel Kyle's hands clench next to him on the table. "It's about _time_ your traitorous genes showed themselves for how useless they really are."

Kyle, who had been drinking, slams down his water bottle, the sound ringing in Stan's ears through the frail table. Stan thinks about going to the library, or finding an empty classroom, for the quiet, but there's a small nugget of sympathy for Kyle that keeps him in his seat. This isn't the usual crap, now that Cartman's got a fresh target. It's Kyle's first day at school with his new glasses.

"You're finally the full package, Kyle, a real Jew specimen, not that you need it to scare off gir- "

"Shut up, Cartman," Kyle deadpans in an even voice, miraculously. "Don't fucking sit with us today if you're going to cause a scene," he runs a hand over the back of Stan's shirt briefly, "no one's in the mood for your bullshit."

Stan looks up from his slouch at the touch. He can hear Cartman mumbling something about _bitchy buttfucking boyfriends _but it's old and tired now, and easy to tune out because Kyle turns to him, deliberately quieting his voice, and says, "Do you want my juice?" He's unzipping his bag. "You have to get something in your stomach, dude."

He digs a familiar yellow juicebox out of his backpack and puts it in front of Stan. "It's warm," he says. "Shouldn't feel too bad on your teeth."

Stan drinks it, realising from the rumble in his stomach that Kyle is right. And it is lukewarm, which is normally very gross, but the important thing is it doesn't hurt Stan's mouth which already feels like it's been mangled by a wild animal.

Kyle's been getting bad headaches, too, so he understands. It's the reason he had to get glasses in the first place. He's not supposed to look at the computer except when he needs to, and Stan's pretty sure that watching compilations of animal clips over his shoulder counts. _Animal Farm_ has put dogs in Stan's mind, and he reminisces about Sparky after school while browsing clips. The algebra homework ended up being easier than his mind was building it up to be against the prospect of invigorating and awkward sexting, and copying half of it off Kyle helped, too. About the tenth time that Stan replays the same video of a puppy walking around in a bathtub, Kyle groans in exasperation and leaps off the couch.

Stan glances up to see him checking his reflection in the fancy mirror his mom has up in the living room.

"This sucks," Kyle says.

"Headache?" Stan asks. They can take a break and do something else, like go for a walk and see if they can scrounge some weed off Kenny. "I get them too, dude. It does suck."

Kyle grumbles; it's not an affirmation. So it isn't headaches. Stan sighs, preempting his complaint. "If you think you look like a nerd, try feeling like you're chainsawing your mouth every time you move it. On top of that."

"Yours isn't permanent," is all Kyle says. Stan goes back to the video. After the twelfth time the puppy's sweet little paws scramble for purchase on the edge of the tub and fall, Kyle hesitantly asks, "Stan? Do I actually look like a nerd?"

Stan frowns. "Are you worrying about what Cartman said about your glasses? Since when do you care about his fucking opinion?"

"I don't," Kyle says absentmindedly, staring into the mirror. He takes off his glasses and puts them back on again. Then he takes off his hat, running his hand through his hair before re-adjusting it at a slightly different angle.

Stan watches him, and his irritation softens. Stan doesn't really get it. It's kind of annoying that Kyle is hung up over something so inconsequential, that doesn't even change his appearance that much, while Stan is in genuine pain. Stan has never bothered much about his own appearance - it's just how it is, it doesn't really matter and he doesn't think about it. His face isn't hideous according to the periodic judgement of the girls in his year, which is good enough, and yeah, he'd like, real abs, or something, one day, but he doesn't care enough to fuss about it. There are some things about Kyle that he just doesn't get.

...

The sentiment, he realises, is sadly mutual.

Kyle stands in front of Stan, backpack dangling from his wrist. "Your mom let me in," he says awkwardly.

Stan nods once.

"I didn't realise it was- I didn't realise you were this bad," Kyle says quietly. When Stan doesn't reply, he sits down on the edge of the bed, pushing the covers away towards Stan, who's already sitting huddled in a pile of them. "Dude, you haven't been in school all week."

Stan knows _that_. He doesn't need to be told.

"We were gonna go to the movies," Kyle says - expectantly, like a child, like that's all he can say.

They were - and Stan was going to pretend that he felt okay, like he did last week when they went to the mall, and the week before, when they went cycling around the pond. And he had planned to do it the next week, too, and probably the week after that; that's his norm now, and it's hard to remember since when.

But Kyle is staring at him. The useless urge to cry wells up like hot pinpricks in his face, but he can't even tell what that means, not really.

"_Stan,_" Kyle says again, but Stan can't face him.

Stan glares at the corner of the nightstand. If he keeps staring at that one spot, maybe, the feeling will go away and he'll go back to the haze of _nothing_, and he won't have to look anything in the eye, least of all Kyle's heartbroken gaze.

"You should have _told_ me," Kyle presses on. Stan can almost feel the way Kyle's brows must be knitted together, just by his tone. "Why didn't you say anything?"

Stan's skin smarts at the indignance in his voice, but it's short-lived. Last week, he'd kind of wanted to punch Kyle for casually telling him to suck it up about his weird moodiness. Now, he can't muster up the energy to even imagine feeling like it mattered. How was Kyle going to understand, when Stan couldn't even understand what the fuck was going on with him?

"I don't know, dude." Stan's voice comes out despondent, way quieter than he intended.

"I didn't think you were _sick_," Kyle says, and he trembles on the end of the sentence; it's tinged with something hesitant, something scared, that it almost makes Stan's staring match with the nightstand falter. The word _sick_ is sharper and realer than ever in Kyle's familiar voice. It's different to how the school counselor says it, to even how his parents say it.

"I don't know why, Kyle," he says again. He looks down into his lap at a sudden prick of sensation: thick, hot splashes trickle down the side of his arm into the fabric of his pyjamas. In the moment it takes him to recognise the wetness on his chin, Kyle's arms are around him, clutching at his shoulders, the force of him pushing the breath out of Stan. He finds his face buried in the collar of Kyle's jacket, and his arms tight around Kyle's waist, and doesn't let go, not even when his knuckles are white.

Kyle comes back the next day. He doesn't really get it, and maybe Stan can't ask him to. But there are other things he _can_ ask for.

...

It's inevitable that Kyle will get into some kind of fight some point in the school year - nine times out of ten, something completely avoidable - but usually he comes out of it mostly unharmed. Tonight, Kyle bursts through the back door of his house, fuming. Stan is on the kitchen counter, streaming the hockey game on Ike's phone as the television is currently occupied. There's a bruise blooming on Kyle's face, blotchy and red, that actually makes Stan gasp when he sees it.

"I didn't expect you to be here," Kyle says, staring right at Stan with widened eyes, at the same time that Ike yells, "What the _fuck _happened to your face?"

They both take a moment to glance warily at the door through where Mrs Broflovski is going through her rota of recorded soaps on the TV. Getting into fistfights and cursing happen just as commonly as one would expect under her rigid house rules, meaning, all the time. Stan pays them no attention, going straight to the freezer. He finds an unopened bag of mixed vegetables, and wraps it in a tea towel - it'll do for now, seeing as Kyle's face is starting to go purple.

Kyle observes the damage in the reflection of the fridge, wincing. "Cartman happened," he mutters darkly.

Stan has gone through five fucking stages of exasperation before Ike can say, "Why?"

Kyle at least looks a little embarrassed as he takes the makeshift ice pack from Stan, without meeting his eyes. "Thanks," he mutters, before turning to Ike, "he was just...around, when I finished basketball practice. It was stupid. I shouldn't have let him get to me. He went crying home, at least."

Stan doesn't doubt that he did, but that's not exactly his issue here. "What did he do?" he asks. He's not going to lie - seeing Kyle like this leaves him a little shaken, even if what he wants to feel is disappointed.

"Just - the same shit as usual," Kyle says, without elaborating. He rubs his right hand on the edge of the counter, eyes down, examining it.

Stan doesn't believe that for a second. Kyle's immunity over the years has mercifully managed to outpace Cartman's insults, which hit a dead end a long time ago. He's about to roll his eyes and object to that answer when he notices Kyle and Ike are having some kind of staring contest over the counter. What on Earth is going on? "Kyle, what the hell's-"

But Ike gives him a pointed look. _Just drop it, man. _Kyle just keeps on staring at the counter.

Ike glances between them weirdly. "I'm going upstairs," he announces. He squeezes Kyle's shoulder sympathetically on the way out, taking a step sideways to close the freezer door with his foot. Right. He takes another cautious glance at Kyle. "There's smarter things you could do about it than let fucking Cartman get to you, you know," he says. He looks imploringly at Stan, before waving his phone in the air, "I'll - uh, send you the stream." And then he disappears.

Weird. Stan takes the ice out of Kyle's hands carefully. "Wash your hands," he says. When Kyle comes back, drying them on his jeans, Stan makes him sit and tilts his face to check the damage. He frowns. He doesn't know what the fuck Cartman could have said to provoke him that resulted in a scrap like that. Kyle hisses when the ice pack touches the puffy skin over his cheekbone.

'What was it really about?" Stan asks, gentler this time.

Kyle still doesn't meet his eyes. 'I already told you," he mumbles.

Stan decides to drop it, reluctantly. Kyle looks completely miserable, and a bigger part of him wants to cheer him up rather than poke at it while it's fresh. He just hopes Kyle can tell him in due time.

...

Stan breaks his arm the summer they graduate high school, at practice the morning before their senior prom. He's not too unhappy about it, all things considering; his arm managed a whole season on the school's new lacrosse team (incidentally the reason for its demise). Kyle, who thinks lacrosse is stupid, dutifully draws dicks on the cast like he's helping carry out Stan's inevitable punishment from God for choosing such a lame sport.

"I like trying different things," Stan explains as Kyle carefully pulls the tuxedo jacket over his shoulders.

"Then do basketball with me," Kyle says, fiddling with the buttons. Of course, what he means as of last Friday is _you should have done basketball with me_, but it's a set routine, this conversation, a force of habit.

"You have to be tall," Stan says.

"_You're_ tall. You're taller than me," Kyle replies. When Stan stands up to check if that statement is still valid, his arm aches with a heavy throb, despite the drugs still coursing in his system.

"That's why you suck at basketball," Stan informs him. "And _barely,_" he smirks, glancing down to check the height on Kyle's shoes. Kyle looks surprisingly good in a sleek blue tux, and Stan really hopes he knows it. "You gotta stop growing, dude. You can't be both taller and hotter than me. That's a death sentence for my dating life. We'll have to stop being friends."

Kyles almost ends up choking him with the tie that he was carefully doing. He coughs, bright red.

Stan laughs giddily, feeling flush himself. That low grade fever the doctor was talking about must be kicking in.

"How much Advil did they give you? Are you sure you don't wanna sit this one out?" Kyle quirks an eyebrow, but it's strangely forced. Stan beams. So he did understand.

"No way," Stan says. He reminds Kyle of how he promised Wendy he would go. They haven't dated in a long time, but since the end of high school seems to have left everyone in a kind of weird, liminal space - no steady couples besides whatever bizarre thing Craig and Tweek are _still_ doing - Stan asked Wendy to go together. They've been good enough friends since junior year; after the initial awkwardness, it dawned on Stan how much the qualities he liked in Wendy seemed to bloom once he stopped trying to date her. Turns out the feeling was mutual. Mostly, Stan secretly enjoys the symmetry in taking the first person he loved, all the way back at the beginning of school, to their final prom.

Well, the first person he loved like _that._

Kyle focuses on the tie, going a little slower this time. Stan stays standing for it, watching closely. Kyle's elbow knocks into Stan's arm several times.

"Ow," Stan says, before yawning.

The prom is nice enough. Everyone looks nice, and Stan notes what he knows about where each person is going afterwards in a daze. They get invited to two afterparties, surprisingly, one at Heidi's house (Stan for being Wendy's date and Kyle because Stan) and one at Token's, who Stan learns is trying to date Wendy, probably for some strange sense of comfort as they both fly off to California for college. Neither choice is great considering, but it doesn't matter in the end because he barely makes it past the first hour, let alone any afterparty.

Stan manages one dance with Wendy and half a beer behind the back of the venue with Kenny that Kyle admonishes him for, before he decides he's ready to pass out or maybe try chopping off his arm with the buffet bread knife. Kyle doesn't like dances that much anyway, so he has no second thoughts about whisking Stan away like the perfect friend he is. Stan, drugged up on another round of his special hospital dose of Advil, sleeps on Kyle's shoulder in the taxi on the way back into town.

"Are you feeling okay?" Kyle asks, a hand on the back of his neck.

"Mm," Stan says, unhappy to be interrupted from his stupor. Kyle is warm and smells good from fancy prom cologne, and up close, the smell of him kind of drowns out the new-car-pine scent of the taxi that's making Stan want to throw up in his state.

Kyle pays the whole cost of the trip, which is a lot because South Park High decided to be fancy for once and host the dance in a nice venue out of town. Stan mumbles his thanks and lets Kyle have his keys, lead him upstairs, and dump him in bed. They watch talk shows while Kyle sips the whiskey Stan keeps hidden under his bed, mixes it with his apple juice that Stan also has under his bed. Stan doesn't even really mind that he's missing out on that because he's sleepy enough and happy enough without.

When Stan gets his cast off, Kyle is on the other side of the country to attend open houses at a couple of East Coast colleges. He watches the plaster fly off, cutting a giant Sharpie penis right through the middle, and smiles up at the nurse's dubious expression. "My best friend," he says. "He's a smart guy, I swear."

...

Kyle is the only person Stan knows who somehow manages to get more anxious when he's drunk. So when he's a six-pack into an existential crisis and almost slices off his thumb without paying attention, Stan is alarmed, but not that surprised.

Kyle's been worrying about his grades, which the beer wormed out of him half an hour ago: the work just gets progressively harder each semester, and he can't fail an economics degree when it wasn't even his mom's first choice, and what's he going to do if he fails anyway, go back to fucking South Park? Stan nods seriously in sympathy and follows the best he can. Kyle looks wired, like he needs to get it out - it's a strange level of frankness for him. About a subject that Kyle is usually a little evasive and arrogant about, and about a dependence on his mom's opinion that he probably wouldn't admit to without enough drink.

When Kyle tires himself out, Stan trails him into the kitchen on the hunt for apples. Kyle craves fruit when he's dazed or drunk - like some weird childhood conditioning to keep his diabetes in check, or just one of the few healthy foods he actually enjoys. The kitchen in Stan's dorm constantly smells like rodents die in there weekly (which they probably do) courtesy of being shared by a floor full of frenzied students. Thankfully it's much easier for his brain to not notice the stench when he has to focus all its power on just walking straight.

Stan finds a knife on the drying rack and tosses it to Kyle along with his last apple from the fridge. Kyle struggles with the blade, holding on too far to towards the tip. Stan wants to tell him to not do that, but the thought escapes his hazy mind when he tries to voice it.

"It's not even like I don't like it," Kyle says, continuing their conversation from the common room, "I just wish I- _fuck - shit -_"

It takes a few moments for the red that starts smudging all over Kyle's hand to register as blood, but the second it does, Stan stumbles to the first aid kit at the top of the fridge. He shouldn't have let Kyle do that drunk. There are no band aids left in there for Kyle's fumble, probably because of that exact reason, so Stan has to use gauze. Turning around again puts him in a worse state. He blinks and waits for Kyle to rematerialise, solid, in front of him, before cutting up a strip carefully.

Stan wraps up the cut. Kyle crumples up his face at the sting. It's not big, but it does seem deep. It feels nice to do something for Kyle right now, even if it's not much. "Don't hold a knife like that," Stan says. Kyle nods in agreement. "Why would you. You're a - a total dumbass, Kyle," he adds earnestly.

"I know," comes the morose reply from one of the three Kyles that sway in front of him.

"Shh," Stan says, shaking his head before stopping abruptly when the motion makes him want to throw up. He tapes up the end of the strip.

And then he's just left with Kyle's hand, in the middle of the gross dorm kitchen. It's warm cupped in his, smooth, tangible and a bunch of other words that Stan's mind could never conjure up sober. When he looks at the stupid cut, already blooming red under the white gauze that he can't really fix properly, it reminds him of how precious and perishable this is. Kyle is.

Kyle looks lost. He says, looking right into Stan's eyes, impassioned for an answer, "I don't know why the fuck you would keep such a blunt knife?"

Stan holds him firmly by the shoulders, and not only because the position sort of helps him stand. "You're gonna do amazing," he says. "I promise. You just need to put your head down and put in the work. You've managed it for three years, dude, I know you can do it."

Kyle shakes his head, looking like he might cry if he didn't busy himself with the motion. It's a stab to Stan's chest.

"She's gonna be _so _proud of you, dude," Stan says. The bloody hand rests at his collar in appreciation. He adds, "I am."

Kyle shrugs sadly. He stares between them for a moment, before extracting himself gently and putting his arms around Stan. Stan leans in. It feels like the first real hug from a real person that he's had in two semesters, even counting his mom. It's that fact, or maybe the throbbing in his head, that makes him ask Kyle to stay with him that night. Stan feels guilty for it the minute he does - he'd miss at least half a day of class tomorrow with the commute in the morning. It's something that's important to Kyle not only because of the Ivy League price tag they come with - he's had perfect attendance since ninth grade.

Kyle lets him change the bandage again before they go to sleep. Stan is feeling a little clearer in the head this time around, and he manages to wind the gauze properly so that it stays put.

Kyle smiles disparagingly, like it's stupid all six feet of him are out of commission from an injury not much wider than a papercut. It kind of is. But Kyle's always been dramatic. "Thanks for taking care of me," he says.

Stan smiles. He clearly isn't sober enough, because he says, "I'll always take care of you, dude."

Kyle looks at him for a long, long moment, biting down a brilliant smile the whole time.

Was it something Stan said?

...

Sometimes there's nothing to do besides ride it out.

Kyle comes home late from seeing friends, flipping the light switch in the doorway up and down and up and down. Stan was supposed to go, too, but he's been bowed out for the last couple of days. He went to work this morning, sure, but he can't handle anything beyond that right now.

"Ugh, the bulb's gone in my room," Kyle says, before coming back into the small living room instead, pulling out his laptop from under the ancient coffee table that came with the apartment. The glow from it so close hurts Stan's eyes a little, but he's not moving from the couch.

He can't explain it properly, but he's finding that he doesn't have to.

"I'll change it tomorrow, I guess," Kyle sighs, propping up his glasses on his head. Stan closes his eyes from the glare. He doesn't hear much for a moment. Then, Kyle's laptop lid slams shut. His shoes come off, his glasses settle on the glass table. His hands find the edge of Stan's blanket in the dark, pulling up the corner. One of them travels down the back of Stan's head and smooths the hair behind his ear with careful strokes, the other just rests on his crown. Kyle's breathing slows next to Stan's, stays there steady for a moment, before he slides off the edge of the couch and stands up again.

They'll have to talk about this at some point. The petting, not the lightbulb. For now, Stan's just grateful.

"You don't have to. I'll change it in the morning," Stan says.

Kyle lets him have it, even though they both know he might not. "Sure," he says, sitting on the floor. He leans back against the couch, pulling out his phone. "Do you wanna know what Kenny's been up to? "

Stan does. It helps.

...

Kyle, it's been long established, is really fucking good at getting the flu. At this point, Stan has seen everything that Kyle's immune system can throw at him, so when he wakes up after _the _most amazing night of his life, he only worries for a moment at the empty space next to him, before wandering outside his room to find Kyle shivering like a wet animal on the couch over his morning coffee. Stan simply fishes out the thermometer and painkillers from the cupboard and drops them in his lap. And maybe, he decides after an exhilarating second of deliberation, a kiss to the temple. That should be allowed now.

"Can I make you tea instead?" Stan asks over his own breakfast, eyeing Kyle's mug pointedly. Dehydration is exactly what he needs right now, sure.

Kyle mutters something predictable and unconvincing about needing to be awake enough to work. It's no surprise to anyone why these spells of flu last so long for him.

"What do you want then?" Stan asks.

Kyle pulls his arms around himself with a loud sigh of suffering and gives a long, gross sniff. "Death."

"Okay. Anything that I can buy from the store?"

"Is there soda?"

"Dude, you're not having fucking soda."

Kyle is momentarily asleep when Stan returns with his coat and keys. Stan leaves him with a bottle of good old-fashioned water for when he wakes up, texts him his whereabouts, and leaves to get groceries. When he returns, Kyle has deteriorated to a lying position, a textbook lying open discarded on the floor, a half-eaten chocolate bar and his glasses in the same state. Stan takes his place on the rug, starts up the console and TV, and hangs out with Kyle's zombified body for the rest of the afternoon.

"My head hurts," Kyle announces for the fifth time in half an hour. He asks Stan to massage it. Despite his affect, Stan isn't really going to deny him anything right now. They kissed (a _lot_) for the first time last night, so Stan is definitely already infected, and even without that thrilling act of contamination, it's too late to escape anyway: he promised himself a long time ago of exactly where he's going to be.


End file.
